


Thinking Loud

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [108]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Catholicism, Churches & Cathedrals, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, Holy Communion | Eucharist, Light Angst, M/M, Old Married Couple, Older Dean, POV Dean Winchester, Poetry, Post-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Slice of Life, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, jaded comments about religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9799406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: The whole place smells like one of their weapons boxes. For the first ten minutes, Dean feels the need to remain on guard, wary of everyone and everything. Even Gloria Ramos.





	

 

Is it weird?

Yeah. Pretty weird.

Incredibly weird.

The whole place smells like one of their weapons boxes. For the first ten minutes, Dean feels the need to remain on guard, wary of everyone and everything. Even Gloria Ramos.

“She's eight years old,” Sam murmurs, elbowing Dean. “At ease.”

Dean glances over at Gloria, who makes a face. He lifts an eyebrow and sticks his tongue out. His response, or Gloria's subsequent giggles, earns him another god damn pointy as fuck elbow in the ribs and the sternest eye roll known to man. Who died and made Sam boss? Since when is this Sam's house? Isn't it the house of the Lord or whatever? If God wants Dean to stop, he can get the fuck off his cloud or stop making out with dudes in New York City bars and deliver the message himself. Or maybe he's too busy appearing on tortillas or recording terrible music so he left Sam as The Enforcer.

“Shut up,” Sam snaps. “You're loud as hell.”

“Hell is louder,” Dean quips. He straightens his tie. “And I wasn't talking out loud.”

Sam looks at him the way one might look at a dog after it pees all over the expensive rug in the living room right after attending equally expensive and time consuming obedience classes. Like this hypothetical dog, Dean responds with what he thinks is a very cute facial expression.

Another eye roll.

Sheesh. Touchy.

When will they start passing out the body of Christ? He's hungry. Little wine and a wafer won't fill him up, but it can't hurt. But it's red wine. That's been giving him some wicked heartburn lately. Some cardiologist person dude guy that Sam carted him off to suggested a glass of wine every other day for heart health. Recommend some alcohol to a recovering alcoholic? Just a glass. Every other day. Supervised.

Fine. It's not like Dean ever really reached for wine first anyway. Even the radiator wine was more expensive than the cheapest brand of whiskey or beer on tap.

Maybe Jesus won't mind if he asks for white instead of red.

“You don't take communion,” Sam sighs, practiced in heavy, put upon sighs.

In retaliation, Dean elbows Sam. “Shh, some of us are trying to listen.”

Hazel eyes light up in a way that the puppy with the pee pee on the rug problem has also just eaten a pile of papers to be graded.

Before Sam can form his anger into words, people all around them, Gloria included, stand up. Dean smooths out the front of his suit. He went with a slate color today and paired it with a cream shirt and a robin's egg blue tie. They've spent most of their lives in suits, but this suit feels the most comfortable. He took the time to press it this morning, and Sam's. But he likes his suit better. Sam chose a boring shade of dark blue, not quite indigo. He's the one who looks like he might as well be interviewing witnesses and suspects. Even though Dean could still kick ass in his awesome suit.

“Dean!”

“What? I’m not bothering you.”

“ _You_ think that, but you are!”

“Nah. Don't think so.”

“I'll tell you what I think--”

Gloria picks the perfect time to launch herself at Dean and demand to be escorted to take communion. She punches him in the gut, which is more of an actual gut lately because Sam inherited Mary’s damn metabolism and hogged it all for himself. Fucker.

“C’mon,” Gloria pleads, hanging from Dean’s jacket. “You gotta tell me which hand goes over which one.”

“How should I know?” Dean grumbles, picking her up. “Shouldn't you have learned that…” He narrowly stops himself from saying, that shit. Wedging past Sam and other folks in their pew, he listens to her tale of how Yun Kim brought in the prettiest Bible--with pictures--and she forgot to take a look at which hand had to be up for the cookie. Any other adult would correct her and say it's not a cookie. But Dean has a personal in with the Not So Big Guy upstairs and this seems like a minor detail.

“You like my dress?” Gloria smooths out the front just like Dean did for his suit. “I picked it.”

“It's a winner.”

“I want one like Tia Mercedes’.”

“Why? Yours is better.”

“Tia’s has sparkles.”

Those sparkles, Dean knows, are sequins. And not a couple of sequins here and there--but a few thousand at least. Every sequin clings onto a dress so tight, one of the greatest mysteries of all time is how Tia Mercedes can not only breathe in that dress, but move around enough to dance. Dean admires Mercedes’ ability to not give a shit. Fuck everyone else. Those who are brave enough to wear what they want should have the floor.

“I'll get you a dress with sparkles.” Dean never thought he'd live to see his mid-fifties, which means he never thought he'd be offering to buy an eight year old girl a dress with sparkles. Or that he'd ever say the world sparkles with complete sincerity. Or that he'd ever be willingly standing in a communion line, inside a church, while his brother, who happens to be his partner, chats up everyone near their pew, no doubt volunteering them for more outings.

So, really, anything can happen.

Like how they reach the front of the line and Gloria announces, in complete seriousness, “I can't wear a dress with sparkles like Tia because I don't have tatas like hers.”

Well.

Dean coughs, sets her down, and nudges her forward to accept her share of the body and guts of some dude from the terrified-looking, teenage altar boy.

Gloria does what Dean would do. She looks over at the other line of people and models an older woman’s hands receiving communion. Not that the altar boy cares after her announcement.

After her sip of wine, Dean picks her up again, this time a little slower. Damn muscles and bones, slowing him down. Regret pinches his lower back and knee, justified since he left his cane at home. He didn't plan ahead for any picking up of children. Gloria is small for her age, but still about the weight of a duffle bag full of supplies. And she wiggles. And talks right into his ear. And presses into him, uncomfortable and shy, whenever someone she doesn't immediately know tries to talk to Dean. Her fingers curl into the collar of his suit. He leans hard on his right knee to take the pressure off his left.

Regret turns into pain.

Pain turns into somewhat labored breathing. Was the walk up to the altar this long?

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Gloria mumbles, butting her forehead against his ear. “Can you come with me?”

No. For one, he's about to double over in pain. Two. He needs to sit. Three. Should a man in his fifties take an eight year old girl to the bathroom? Well, he'll stand outside, but is that okay?

Rodriguez, the butcher from the shop Sam doesn't like, approaches Dean like they're in a bar. Loud, fucking boisterous, and big, he swoops in and claps Dean on the shoulder--fortunately the one not currently half occupied by a child. In between Rodriguez practically yelling about the price of beef and next week’s soccer game at Soldier Field, Dean feels something against his side.

For a second, he thinks the worst. Gloria couldn't wait for the bathroom.

But nope. It's not that.

She's shaking.

“Look, sorry,” he blurts out. “I had too much blood of Christ and now I gotta take a whiz. Stuff goes right through me.”

Who wins the prize for saying the weirdest things out loud at church? Him or Gloria?

The church is massive. It's all marble, gold, stained glass, and velvet. There's not just one confessional--there are twelve. Six on each side. Just in case a dozen people suddenly feel the need to chat about how much money they stole or that thing they did with their friend that's illegal in two states and probably not okay with what the Bible says either.

Past sleek, polished columns and the stained glass eyes of various martyrs, Dean pushes past people and pain. By the time he reaches the bathrooms, his gait becomes a hobble. God damn cane. God damn knee. God damn house of God without spare canes. Would it kill them to provide something like that? Or would it eat into the budget for buying more candles or cleaning the crushed velvet rugs on the floor? Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

There's a line for the women's bathroom.

Of course there is.

Think. Think. What would John have done? No. Probably not the best reference.

What would Mary have done?

Dean carefully sets Gloria down. He tells her to wait there. No, don't move. Okay, fine, pee-pee dancing is fine but don't move.

With a sigh, he opens the door to the men’s room.

“Yo, anyone in here? Anyone in the latrine? Anyone in the baño?”

His voice echoes against the coral tiles. How does it smell like holy water in here? What do they do? Use it as cleaner?

He checks all three stalls--clear.

Been a while since he's cleared a space for danger.

Outside, he motions Gloria in.

“I can't,” she groans. “That's where boys pee!”

Dean helpfully presents her with an alternative. “You wanna pee in the fountain?” Unfortunately, he can see the wheels turn in her head as she contemplates it. “Forget it, kid. Just go. There's nothing in there you don't see in the other bathroom. Except for the urinals. Don't use those. C’mon, I'll stand guard.”

She doesn't believe him.

Internally crying, Dean kneels down. He looks her square in the eyes. “Look. I’m ex-military. No one is getting through. I’ve seen sh--stuff.” He shows her the difference in size between his closed fist and hers. “When you come out, I’ll show you how to break a guy’s nose.”

With a smile, Gloria turns and uses the available facilities. Dean sighs, relieved.

How the fuck is he going to stand up?

“Don’t show her how to break anyone’s nose.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Sammy.”

“Oh yeah? Stand up and tell me that.”

“Quit being a little shit and help me up. I’m old. And feeble.”

“I remember someone saying, ‘Nah, I don’t need my cane. Is Jesus gonna make me tap dance? I’ll just not listen to Sam and leave it here.’”

“You oughta be ashamed of yourself, talking to a poor old man like that.”

Sam finds it within himself to help Dean stand up and not comment on how he has to use two hands to do so. Dean hides his face during and right after the assistance.

Familiar hands smooth out the front and back of Dean’s suit.

“Don’t encourage violence,” Sam murmurs, fixing Dean’s tie.

“But…”

“I know.”

“So you want me to do nothing?”

“I want you to think things through.”

“Yeah, okay. Closed fist, don’t tuck your thumb in. Brass knuckles for kicks. How’s that?”

After a glance to the bathroom door, Sam shakes his head. “You can’t solve everything the way we were taught. You can’t always pee in a fountain when there’s no bathroom around.”

An uncomfortable silence muscles its way in between them.

Dean shrugs. “Whatever. Now scram, before you spook her.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Lorena you two will wait outside.”

“How much more standing sitting standing sitting is there?”

“Just wait outside.”

Sometimes space or silence between them is a good thing. And sometimes, it’s nice to see Sam walk away. Very nice.

The door cracks open. Dean shuts down any thoughts of Sam in compromised positions or what they might do later tonight. He plasters on a smile and gives Gloria a thumbs up.

“How come boys get _two_ places to pee?” She twirls. “Did you break anyone’s nose? When you were in the army, did you break people’s noses? Do you have a gun? A police officer came to school last week to talk to us and he showed us his. Does the army let you keep their guns? Hey, you know what I think is cool? I can stand on my head.”

There’s no point in answering any of that, because she zips past every topic. Dean lets her talk and ask her questions without interruption. Most of the, she answers. Others, he knows she pockets away for later. They walk side by side down the main hall. A few people linger in the entryway. Dean opens one of the heavy auburn doors to the outside open.

Gloria skips outside, happy to be in the sun.

She climbs onto one of the raised concrete landings beside the stairs. Out on the street, not a parking space can be seen for a country mile. A combination of Hondas, Toyotas, Fords, and the odd Subaru wait for their people to spill out of the house of God and back into the driver’s seat. For now, the street is quiet.

Dean takes a seat on one of the landings. He pats the space beside him. Gloria plops down.

What the hell does he say? There are things he wants to say. Things he would like to say. Or maybe, there are things he’d like to change. Or not change. She should always be this way.

But he can’t approach this in his typical way.

_It is not a five star stay. It is not compliments and it is never ever flattery. It is solid. Not sweet but always nutritious. Always herbs, always salt. Sometimes grit. It is now and till the end. It is never a slither, never a little. It is a full serving._

Mr. Luis, the paleta man, arrives with his cart, heralded by its squeaky wheels. Out of respect for the service, he doesn’t ring the bells attached to the front of his cart. But he doesn’t have to, either. His first two customers line up on their own without the bells. Dean hands him a ten dollar bill and waves off the change. Gloria chose strawberry. Dean chose coconut. Back to their place on the landing.

_It is much too much and real. It is weight and it is too heavy to feel good sometimes. It is discomfort. It is not what the films say._

_Only songs get it right._

_It is irregular. It is difficult._

_And always, always surprising._

He can feel the elbow to his ribs.

He takes a bite of his paleta and begins to talk.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i had the strangest day, y'all. i took today off for a doctor appointment, but they cancelled at the last minute. i had breakfast with an old friend and then i was like... now what? so i went to work. XD on my way to work though, this just popped into my head. i'm glad i was able to finish it tonight. 
> 
> this is fueled by the song "sunday candy" by donnie trumpet and the social experiment. inspired by my aunt's memorial service this weekend at my childhood church. and the poem used is by Yrsa Daley-Ward. <3
> 
> comments are love! thank you for reading.


End file.
